


Things We Know

by ScopesMonkey



Series: Sugarverse [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:51:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John figures out a means of dealing with Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things We Know

This was odd.

It didn't feel odd, which was what was odd about it.

Plus, he was exhausted. And sore.

But in a _very_ good way.

What was strange about it was how normal it felt, how natural. As though he'd always been heading down this road, from the moment he'd been born, through medical school, through the army, through being shot, through coming home, through moving into Baker Street. As if it had planned it every step of the way.

John hadn't set out to fall in love with his flatmate. The thought hadn't really even occurred to him until fairly recently – long after Sarah had split from him, which had been mildly disappointing but not surprising, since his apparent adrenaline addiction did not exactly mesh with her ideas about what she wanted from a relationship. Stability. Security. Predictability.

John had thought often about those things after that, in reference to his own life. His job was stable, secure, and predictable, after all.

When he wasn't interrupted by Sherlock's mad cases.

Outside of work, he was dragged all over London, chasing madmen with guns, examining bodies, trying to deduce what had killed them, being towed into stand offs with murderers, listening to Sherlock's lightning quick assessments of suspects, of circumstances.

It wasn’t not stable, secure, or predictable.

It was _fun_.

John loved it.

Every single insane minute of it.

Which, bit by bit, he realized translated into love of the man himself. He could honestly not imagine what his life would have been like without Sherlock Holmes; he'd probably still be limping, tied to that damn cane for an injury that didn't physically exist.

Yes, all right, but that wasn't all. He'd always enjoyed living with Sherlock and the madness that followed his flatmate around. That didn't mean falling in love with him. Especially since John had never found men sexually attractive; objectively, he could evaluate what women saw in other men, but it had never gone beyond that.

Then he found himself noticing the details of Sherlock's facial expressions. Watching the way Sherlock moved (especially enjoying the fit jeans, which had been a big tip off). Noting the small gestures, a frown, a hand raking through dark hair, the curl of his fingers round his coffee mug. The way he smelled, how it was different in the morning than in the evenings. Being caught off guard when Sherlock had knocked on his bedroom door one morning, shirtless, and demanded to know where John had hidden the sugar for his coffee when really, they'd just run out and John hadn't remembered to buy more. As if Sherlock's state of dress was irrelevant to anything.  It wasn’t irrelevant to John.

John had actually hidden it the sugar then, a few days later, to see if he'd get a similar reaction.

And it had actually worked.

He'd accepted it then – because really, there was absolutely no way he could deny it any longer – but he didn't act on it, because it was Sherlock. He was certain his flatmate was gay, but Sherlock insisted that he was married to his work, and John respected whatever boundaries Sherlock needed to maintain.

Until Sherlock tore them down by creeping into his bed in the middle of the night, asking about John's reaction to Molly Hooper's death, before settling down to sleep next to John.

With one thing and another, sleep had not happened that night.

Last night.

Not at all.

Which was why John was exhausted and sore, but in a good way.

There were so many things he hadn't expected, he didn't know where to start. How his body had reacted to Sherlock's – it was one thing to admit he was attracted to the man, another for the force of it to take him so strongly he could barely think.

He hadn't expected Sherlock to know what he was doing. John certainly didn't, not really, not when faced with another man (although a lot of it remained instinctive, which was a relief). But Sherlock knew. _Really_ knew. And he was good. Better than good. Spectacular.

John had been glad, in the back of his mind, that they had been upstairs in his bedroom, separated by another level from Mrs. Hudson's flat. Because nothing he'd tried was going to allow him to be quiet, let alone silent. Sherlock had seen to that. Every bit of self-restraint John had tried to wield had been expertly plucked from him and tossed aside, under the onslaught from Sherlock's lips, tongue, hands, voice, and from his focused plans to get John to respond as loudly and thoroughly as possible.

It had worked.

The wall behind John’s headboard was now dented and chipped.

There had been some muttered explanation about some bloke Sherlock had known in university – not boyfriend, Sherlock said that was too personal a word. French. It explained pretty much everything. John hadn't wanted any more details, because after that, everything was lost in a haze of desire.

It had hurt, of course, but Sherlock was good at dealing with that, too. Getting John's body to relax, to trust him. No trust issues _here_ , John remembered thinking. Then he'd laughed, then moaned as Sherlock's tongue had dragged up his chest, then across his scar, very carefully.

It was the first time anyone had ever touched his scar and made him feel desire, and desirable.

For breakfast, Sherlock had made him a cup of coffee, with a side serving of ibuprofen. Laughing at that had made John's stomach hurt to match the rest of his body.

"Stay home," Sherlock murmured, pressing him up against the door when John tried to leave, unbuttoning his coat, pulling his shirt from his trousers, running his hands up John's skin. His fingertips left blazing trails, setting John's nerves on fire, making it hard to think.

"Okay," John had gasped and Sherlock had caught him in a kiss, triumphantly. Then: "No, I have to go to work. I have patients who need me."

" _I_ need you," Sherlock had protested between kisses, dipping his head to trace his lips down John's neck, making John arch against him.

"I have responsibilities," John tried to argue.

"Mm-hmm," Sherlock agreed. "Right here."

In the end, he'd made it to work, but had been late. He'd blamed it on problems with the tube, which everyone muttered about sympathetically, understanding, and no one questioned. Thankfully, none of the marks Sherlock had given him showed, and John had plenty of experience acting like there was no pain when there was. His shoulder had taught him how to do that. Granted, this was somewhat different – he hoped his body would loosen up a bit and get used to it, which, after some quick clandestine research online during a five-minute break, he found should be the case.

He downed ibuprofen all day, ready to blame the shoulder, but no one caught him or asked.

He made it through the day, somehow, miraculously not being distracted by his patients' rather mundane problems. How could they expect him to care about their minor worries when he had a rather extraordinary man waiting impatiently for him at home?

It didn't help that Sherlock was texting him every five minutes with suggestions about what he'd like to do to John when John got home. Eventually, John had to stuff his phone in his desk drawer, knowing Sherlock would resort to calling his office line if he turned his mobile off.

He picked up a sandwich on the way home and ate it on the tube. Sherlock had different ideas about food – as in, he didn't think it was important – and John knew it was unlikely that Sherlock was going to let him make dinner and eat it unmolested. Or at all.

He was right.

Sherlock was on him the moment he stepped through the door. John struggled to get his coat off and Sherlock obliged him, taking John's shirt off along with it. John moaned into their kiss, which Sherlock hadn't let him break. John didn't care. Space was intolerable. He reached up, winding his fingers into Sherlock's hair, caressing his curls, pulling him closer, which should have been impossible, but John made it work.

Sherlock stopped moving then, giving a small, soft gasp, not entirely of pleasure – more of surprise. John pulled back quickly and Sherlock didn't protest, but made a small noise that John could only classify as contentment.

John studied Sherlock carefully. The other man's eyes were closed, his expression infused with bliss.

John had never seen him like that, even the night before. Not quite.

Experimentally, John pulled his hand away, or at least started to, and Sherlock gave a wordless protest. John rested his hand back against Sherlock's scalp, resuming the gentle stroking with his thumb. Sherlock stilled again, looking more relaxed than John had ever seen before.

Astounding.

Did _anyone_ else know about this? Judging from Sherlock's expression, Sherlock hadn't even known about this. Sherlock tilted his head back slightly, letting some of the weight rest in John's hand. John kept his thumb moving against Sherlock's scalp, amazed by the reaction, by how it had slowed Sherlock right down.

He hadn't even known Sherlock was capable of slowing down.

They stayed like that a minute, then John pulled Sherlock back into a kiss, softly, taking his time, catching Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth and tugging on it gently. That made Sherlock moan and the relaxing sensation was forgotten long enough that John moved his hand to clutch Sherlock's hair only, pulling him closer.

They didn't sleep much that night either, and John was certain he had passed beyond any ability to be sore the next day.

John launched his own experiment on Sherlock. He picked his time carefully, waiting until one day when Sherlock was excessively irritated about some experiment that was not going the way he planned, cursing at his equipment, glaring at it as if it was deliberately defying him. John stepped up behind him, laced a hand into the hair on the back of Sherlock's head, and made soft circles on his scalp with his thumb.

The change was immediate. Sherlock stopped swearing and dropped his hands to his thighs, leaning back into John's hand, closing his eyes. It was as though the tension had drained out of him, but John could see the twinges of desire in Sherlock's expression as well. The look got the better of John and he’d leaned down to kiss Sherlock. They ended up in Sherlock's bed, although John didn't know how, because it had seemed light years away. He had enough sense to hope Mrs. Hudson was at her bridge club before Sherlock stripped away any ability he had to form a coherent thought.

But two incidents didn’t make a pattern.

One evening, he deliberately put away some equipment Sherlock had been working with,. When Sherlock asked him about it, John had answered vaguely that he thought he'd put it in with the cleaning supplies. Since Sherlock had no idea where those were kept, and John had disrupted an experiment, he got the result he wanted. As soon as Sherlock got well and truly angry, John wrapped a hand into his hair and stroked the back of his head.

It worked.

John felt a sharp moment of triumph.

He had a secret weapon.

All right, not so secret, Sherlock had figured it out as well, growing in annoyance – but John had kept it up, and it seemed that the sensation outweighed the anger and irritation, keeping Sherlock nicely pinned where John wanted him.

Considering Sherlock's ability to paralyze John with surprise, the doctor felt not a twinge of remorse about employing this weapon when he had to. It gave him something in defence of what he knew was going to be a lifetime of utter madness, something he could use to reason with Sherlock when reason wouldn't work. He kept it to himself though; never used it on cases – unprofessional – or in otherwise in public – unwise – and never breathed a word to anyone. If no one else knew, and John was confident that this was the case, it could not be used by anyone else, either. And Mycroft Holmes certainly did _not_ need access to this information.

John knew that Sherlock would keep throwing things at him that he'd need to learn to deal with, but at least he'd already established some way to do this. And there would be other things – how would his army friends react to this? And he was going to have to have a firm talk with Anderson and Donovan, who kept trying to bait Sherlock, even though Sherlock dismissed their needling as unimportant. A lot of things still had to be resolved, but he was well on his way to learning the most important part: dealing with Sherlock Holmes as a partner. It was uncharted territory for both of them, and John looked forward to the journey.

 


End file.
